


Yours to Miss

by Princessedelarue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessedelarue/pseuds/Princessedelarue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Fiddleford’s use of the memory eraser set within the Mystery Trio AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours to Miss

**Author's Note:**

> Sometime prior to the events of this story, Stanley (Mr. Mystery, the original Grunkle Stan) and Fiddleford started a serious relationship with each other. Fiddleford hasn’t yet been married or had his son. 
> 
> You’re getting a look at just the 21 days between Fiddleford’s first test of the memory eraser to before his first mention of the Society of the Blind Eye. Pay attention to the dates at the beginning of each section; the story is presented out of chronological order! 
> 
> Specific Warnings: language, violence, sex, and attempted rape (i.e., main character tries to continue having sex with another main character after he’d withdrawn consent)

_June 19 th_

“Fiddleford!”

Stan’s heart was thudding painfully in his chest, exhausted and fit to burst, but he didn’t care. He’d been running around like a maniac – flitting in and out of stores, bumping, unapologetically, into townsfolk, tripping over curbs – and it was such a _relief_ to finally catch him, walking out of Sue’s diner.

It almost made him forget why he was there in the first place.

Fiddleford turned at the sound of his name and waited for Stan to reach him. Where he was expecting to see anger in his eyes, Stan found interest.

It gave him hope.

But when he reached out to take his hand Fiddleford flinched, anxiously, away.

“Look, I get that you’re upset. Things haven’t been great, but that doesn’t mean you just give up!” He tried to keep his tone light and encouraging, but it stuttered with every breath he took.

There was just too much at stake.

Stan had to swallow, hard, before he could finish, “Let’s do it over again – start _fresh_ , remember?”

“I’m sorry...”

He was sinking, most of him already long gone, but he had to give it one last, pitiful, try, “ _Please_ Fidds?”

“Do I know you?”

It was so far from what he was expecting, so _absurd_ , that he felt his mind shut down. He stared blankly at Fiddleford, at the curious tilt of his head and creased brow, trying desperately to process what the expression could mean.

“That’s – that’s not funny.”

But neither of them was laughing.

“Fiddleford?”

This wasn’t like him. It didn’t matter how upset he was, how disappointed or frustrated, he wouldn’t do something like this.

“Take it back.”

Something had to be seriously wrong.

“Say it’s all a _joke!_ ”

In his desperation he must have been coming off as aggressive; Fiddleford was backing away from him, with both hands raised in warning. “I’m sorry,” he said again, but Stan could recognize now the measured, impersonal lilt behind the phrase.

“Fidds.”

People were starting to stare – mothers clutched at their children, teenagers snickered meanly – but he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Not when Fiddleford was looking at him like _that_.

He reached out again, slowly and with his palm up; a careful, pleading gesture. But then there was a hand pulling him off balance and dragging him backwards through the alley beside the diner.

“Stop!” Stan cried, twisting his shoulders and digging in his heels. He left thick grooves in the dirt where they passed, but it didn’t slow his attacker. “Let me _go!_ ” He got one last view of the street, of a few people eyeing them curiously and many more turning away, before he was yanked around the corner of the building. “Fidds!”

“Stanley that’s enough,” his brother hissed as he swung him against the wall. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Stan shot him a heated glare and made to leave. He didn’t have time for this. “ _Look_ , Ford. I have to find Fidds, he –”

A fist slammed into the wood panel by Stan’s head to block his exit. “He doesn’t remember you, you idiot!”

“No, he –”

“Built a device that severs neuronal connections,” Ford exclaimed, cutting a hand through the air. “It prunes back synapses as efficiently as the brain of a _toddler_ , Stanley!”

He was going into full nerd-mode now, pacing with excited agitation and talking a mile a minute.

Stan was already lost.

“He showed me the design months ago, but he described it as a tool for _medicine_ ,” Ford continued. “I never imagined it could be used for this purpose.”

His pacing slowed and then stopped. Ford brought his hands up to stare at the palms, an odd expression on his face; his brow furrowed in something like anger, mouth gaping in horror, or maybe confusion.

Then he closed his eyes, curled his hands into fists, and murmured, “Or that he would ever go this far,” in a voice almost too low to hear.

“What are you talking about?”

Ford sighed, explaining with deliberate slowness, “He’s erased his memories, Stan. Of me, of our _project_ ,” pausing to look right at him, “and now of you.”

This was insane. _He_ was insane. How could anyone –

_‘Do I know you?’_

“Ford, what did you do?”

Stan moved closer, into his brother’s space.

“ _What_ did you _do?_ ”

He didn’t know exactly when he started hitting him, smacking the sides of his fits against Ford’s chest like a damn _child_ , but it was too satisfying to stop.

Not until Ford grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back against the diner wall. His thumbs stuck at the base of Stan’s neck and when he squeezed his hands the tight press there made him wheeze.

“ _I_ didn’t do anything! Don’t you understand?” he cried, giving Stan a hard shake. “He did it to _himself!_ ”

“Stanford…”

The choked name was enough to make Ford let go, take a step back.

But Stan couldn’t let it end there.

“I love him, Stanford.” He heard his voice crack and tried to pretend it was from some damage Ford had done to his vocal cords. “We could’ve spent the rest of our _lives_ together,” he moaned. His breath hitched, but he pushed himself on; he had to get it out, make him see, “You – you _ruined_ my life!”

Ford’s eyes darkened impossibly. “ _He_ did this, Stan,” he said tightly, coolly. “He took _his_ memory eraser, typed in _your_ name, and held it up to his very own skull.”

He made a fist, held two fingers out, pointed them at his temple, and jerked his head to the side.

Stan was going to be sick. He tried to turn away, but Ford drew him back roughly by the chin.

He leaned in so close that Stan could _feel_ every slow word that was hissed, “So ask yourself this, Stanley,” and growled, “if he really loved you,” and spat, “why’d he pull the trigger?”

When Ford let go of him, he sank, lifelessly, to the ground.

Stan didn’t actually see his twin leave, but he knew the moment he was gone. That was when he let go; tears stinging at his eyes to blur his vision, wild sounds scraping his throat raw, nails cutting into the dirt, his clothes, his skin, and anywhere else they could grab…

Until he felt a hand stroking through his hair and looked up into familiar blue eyes.

“It’ll be alright,” Fiddleford assured him, gently.

Stan watched him crouch down, touch fingers to a wet cheek, with mindless fascination. Too stunned to move. Or to question.

“I can help,” he drawled, taking his hand away only to place it on Stan’s knee.

He smiled and it was radiant; full of teeth and framed with deep, well-earned laugh lines.

“If you let me.”

But then he was digging through the worn satchel at his side.

“Just tell me what you’ve seen, friend,” Fiddleford continued, pulling something shiny and solid from out of the first pocket. “And I’ll make sure it never troubles you again.”

A gun.

It was strange-looking, with a light bulb where the barrel should have been and a bunch of extra parts he couldn’t place, but it was still, undeniably, a _gun_.

Stan watched Fiddleford’s fingers run, soothingly, along its metal frame. Watched him cup its handle in a loose but steady hold, curl a finger around the trigger, and lift it towards him.

Then he rammed his shoulder into Fiddleford’s side, ripped the gun from his hands, and ran.   

-xXxXx-

_June 1 st _

His hands were shaking.

Clapping them together, curling them into fists, clawing fingers through his hair – nothing he did could stop the vibrations.

Nothing he did could stop _him_.

Stanford Pines.

Stanford, and that blasted machine – the machine Fiddleford had poured everything he had into building like the trusting _fool_ that he was – would destroy them all!

If he would only listen to reason…

But Stanford had shut him out – had _been_ shutting him out for a lot longer than he’d realized – and there was no telling what he’d do if Fiddleford dared to go back there now.

A knock at the door made him jump.

He tiptoed forward, pulling back just one strip of the blinds over the door’s window to peek through at the man standing on his front porch. He was rather tall and he had a strong jaw and dark brown hair.

With a sharp gasp, Fiddleford let go of the blinds and stepped away.

What more could he possibly _want_ from him? Lord, what was he going to –

“Fiddleford?” a gruff voice called from outside. It was deeper than Stanford’s, kinder too.

 _Stanley_.

His heart racing, Fiddleford moved to undo the latch. He pulled opened the door just wide enough for his boyfriend to see his face beyond the threshold. Nothing more.

“Hey,” Stanley greeted with a nervous, but still undeniably attractive, smile. “I’m sorry for, you know, whatever Ford said to you. He can be kind of a jerk, huh?”

The laughter that rumbled out from his throat was forced. It set Fiddleford’s teeth clacking together in a grimace.

Stanley came closer, reaching a hand up to drum his fingers idly on the doorframe above Fiddleford’s head. “Just come back to the ‘shack and we’ll work it out,” he continued softly, with much more sincerity.

With the bright certainty that only ignorance could provide.

“We’ll get him to reconsider –”

“I _quit_ , Stanley. There’s nothin’ for him to reconsider.”

He watched his partner’s expression drop, feeling a sharp, echoing ache at the centre of his chest.

“Can I come in?”

He longed to say ‘yes,’ to fling open the door and into waiting arms, but he couldn’t.

Stanley had his brother’s face and, as unfair as it was to the both of them, he couldn’t bear the reminder tonight.

He didn’t know how he ever would.

“No,” Fiddleford replied, too quickly. He tried for an apologetic smile and failed. “I – I just need some time alone. To think.”

There was understanding, or rather an attempt at it, in Stanley’s soft gaze.

“Okay, Fidds,” he murmured, his mouth lifting in a crooked smile that was warm and inviting. As he backed away, towards the stairs, he called out, “When you wanna talk, give me a call.”

Then, just as Fiddleford was closing the door, Stanley added the promise, “I’ll come right over.”

He would, too.

Fiddleford knew Stanley’s nature.

How he happily disregarded social conventions. How he could be so stubbornly, _consumingly_ , protective. How he gave his loyalty unconditionally to the people who were closest to him.

And he knew Stanley’s heart.

His partner would do anything for him. _Had_ already done so much.

He had lied, stolen, and cheated, all to make Fiddleford smile. He had put himself in harm’s way far too many times to keep him safe.

And, as terrifying as the thought was, Fiddleford knew without a doubt that Stanley would kill for him.

But would he take Fiddleford’s side against his own brother? Would he stand up against his _twin_ ; the person he’d shared nearly everything with since the womb? The man he depended on, fought for, _trusted_ above all others…

It didn’t matter.

Fiddleford could never ask him to.  

-xXxXx-

_June 14 th_

Stan’s thrusts were slow and uncertain. His rhythm was off.

Fiddleford wasn’t responding to him.

There were no fingers gripping his back, no breathy moans of his name, no tight, receptive clenching… Nothing. Fidds was just lying there beneath him, glassy eyes turned away to stare at the far wall and a small line of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t right.

None of this was right.

Stan stilled, his hips flush against Fiddleford’s, and watched as confusion settled slowly (far too slowly) on his partner’s face.

“Why’d you stop?” Fiddleford asked in a small, distracted sort of voice. His eyes shifted to Stan, but they weren’t focused on him.

It was like he wasn’t really _seeing_ him at all.

Any words Stan might have used in reply were blocked by some swollen lump that had lodged itself in his throat. It might have been his heart.

Then scrawny legs curled their way around his thighs to dip their heels into the creases below his ass. Small hands came up to clamp weakly onto his arms, near the bend of each wrist where he was supporting his weight by Fiddleford’s shoulders. And in that same, far-away, tone Fiddleford whispered, “Keep going,” to the space above Stan’s head.

So he did.

For a little while. Until the legs wrapped around him lost their grip, the hands on his arms fell lifelessly to the sheets below, and Fiddleford’s gaze began to drift.

Then he sighed, eased his way slowly out of his boyfriend, and collapsed onto the bed beside him.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re not into it, Fidds,” Stan muttered, sitting up to roll his condom off and throw it away. “It’s okay, we’ll try again later.”

He couldn’t look at him, not yet. Stan needed time to think.

Something was obviously bothering Fiddleford and he wanted to _talk_ about it. _Really_ talk. Not the useless, shallow, running around in circles kind of talking that they’d _been_ doing.

Every time he’d tried to bring up that bullshit from a couple weeks ago – the fight, Fiddleford quitting, Stanford locking himself up in the lab – Fidds had brushed him off like it was nothing.

This wasn’t nothing.

But before Stan could finish collecting these thoughts, he was pushed, roughly, against the mattress.

Fiddleford straddled him, scratching fingers through his chest hair and slobbering rushed kisses onto his neck. A bony knee that had wedged itself beneath Stan’s ribcage made it hard to breathe.

“No, I can do this!” Fiddleford whined against Stan’s jaw. “I–I want –” he panted, licking his lips and pushing himself up to stare with wild, unblinking eyes. “I want this.”

Then he reached around to grab Stan’s cock in a tight, _too tight_ , hold and rocked himself back.

Stan caught him, cradling his bottom firmly in both hands.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled from a place low in his throat. A place that was threatening to close up and suffocate him.

Fiddleford squirmed in Stan’s grasp, his face scrunched up in frustration. Then realization struck and his mouth fell open in horror. In a flash, he was scrambling off Stan and onto the floor.

Stan rolled over to see him sitting with his back pressed against the mattress, his legs against his chest. He couldn’t see Fiddleford’s face where it was smushed between his knees, but he thought he might have been crying by the way his shoulders were trembling.

He reached a hand out to smooth down mussed, sweat-soaked hair.

“Leave me alone.”

The croaked words had a definite edge of hostility to them, but Stan didn’t pull away. He cupped his palm around Fiddleford’s neck, calling out his name softly as he rubbed little circles there with his thumb.

Fiddleford jerked away from Stan’s touch, his hands flying up to clutch at his hair so tightly he could have been tearing it out. His voice was shrill and somehow accusing when he cried out, “Just _go!_ ” without looking back at him.

Hurt made Stan abandon everything but his jeans as he rushed from the room.

Anger made him slam the door on his way out.

-xXxXx-

_June 10 th_

The night air was pleasantly cool; it made the warmth radiating out from where their sides met on the porch swing all the sweeter. They’d had a relaxing day together, with Fiddleford tinkering in the back yard, Stan sorting his scrap metal into piles, and the two sharing quiet conversations about nothing in particular. Though he hadn’t gotten much real work done, it had been a day well-spent.

They’d been sitting there in front of the house for at least an hour now. Stan’s left arm was propped on the cushion behind them, his right hand cradled in Fiddleford’s own. They’d been silent for the most part, but it was comfortable. Familiar.

Playing with his partner’s fingers – tracing along their edges, massaging between knuckles, encircling them with his– was so _calming_. Fiddleford could have happily spent the rest of the night memorizing the fine lines of Stan’s hand.

But when he flipped it over to examine the palm he found a mark he hadn’t been expecting.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, touching the puckered red scar gingerly with his thumb. The cut had been long, running diagonally from Stan’s index all the way to his wrist, and it must have been quite painful.

Stan hummed, thoughtfully, in his ear. “Oh, that?” He was smirking when Fiddleford turned to look at him. “Aw, you remember Fidds! A couple months ago…?”

A heavy eyebrow quirked up in anticipation.

Fiddleford felt his heart sink when he realized, “I was there when it happened?”

“Sure! We were down in the lab and you –”

His hand caressing Stan’s jaw was all it took to quiet him, but still Fiddleford assured, “Of course! I remember now.” He had to clear a sudden knot in his throat before he could continue, “You know it’s gettin’ late,” turning away to better hide the lie, “and I have a couple of interviews tomorrow morning at the, uh, library. And the museum.”

“Right.”

If Stan wasn’t entirely convinced, he didn’t let on.

He simply stood, leaned down to give Fiddleford a chaste kiss to the forehead, and whispered, “Good night, Fidds,” as he walked to the stairs.

“Good night.”

Fiddleford stayed sitting, perfectly still, on the swing until Stan had disappeared from view around the first bend in the road back to town. Then he hurried inside, locked the door, and drew the blinds.

He needed a pen. Paper.

Something he could use to scrawl out a reminder, a warning, not to ask Stan about any more scars.

To leave marks of the past _alone_.

There really should have been writing materials in the stand by the phone, but… no matter. He knew his office would be fully stocked.

The room in the basement was messier than he remembered leaving it. There were notebook pages littering the floor and desk (why had he ripped them out in the first place?) and white chalk dust sprinkled all over.

It was nothing that couldn’t be fixed.

But first: the note.

As he reached for his favourite red pen, a glint of light caught his eye from across the room. He moved forward to investigate, adjusting his glasses to bring the object clearly into focus.

It was a used canister from the memory ray.

It had been shattered.

-xXxXx-

_June 19 th_

“What the –”

It was a mistake. It _had_ to be.

“What’s wrong?” Ford asked, indifferently, as he poured himself another cup of coffee. He’d been drinking it black lately, and way too much of it to be healthy.

But Stan was too busy trying to catch his breath, feeling his entire world crumble beneath his feet, to really care.

The rigid paper crackled between his fingers, bending forward and back with every tight, unconscious twist of his hands.“Fiddleford, he…”

“He what?” Ford demanded, suddenly interested. “What did he _do_ , Stanley?”

Stan stared at that offensively short and devastatingly to the point letter without blinking. As if the message would change if he looked long enough.

“He ended it,” he replied, numbly. Speaking more to the air growing hotter and hotter around him than he was to Stanford. “He’s breaking up with me.”

No matter how many times he scanned the words written on that page he couldn’t wrap his mind around them.

_… I’m sorry, Stan … with time … I want you to be happy … move on …_

It didn’t even sound like Fiddleford. The letter was too formal. Detached.

Like they’d never been _inside_ one another.

Or shared their first kiss in the middle of the woods, bruised and bloodied, too happy just to be _alive_ to care what it meant.

Like Fidds hadn’t held him the night his father died, stroking his hair. Listening to him sob and yell for _hours_ without once asking him to explain the utter mess that was his childhood.

 _Christ_.  

And the handwriting – even though the lettering was the same, with that funny curl to the ‘f’s and careful circles over the ‘i’s, something about it was _off_. The words were tilted wrong; they were too straight, too… stiff.

This had to be a _mistake_.

Stan lifted his head to look at Ford, about to hand over the letter for his opinion, when he saw the expression on his brother’s face.

He was smiling.

“Oh, _fuck_ you!”

Standing so quickly his chair tipped over, Stan stomped his way out of the kitchen and to the front door.

“Where are you going?”

Without turning around and without raising his voice, Stan answered honestly: “To set things right.”

-xXxXx-

_June 5 th_

It was like getting a good night’s sleep after weeks of unrest. Or the first time he’d put on his glasses, a naïve little boy who hadn’t understood the problem until he’d been given the solution.

It was like coming to realize that you are free.

And Fiddleford McGucket had every intention of making the most of his newfound freedom.

He’d spent the day running tests to ensure that the device had truly been effective. And then he’d called the one person who could take the joy that was already vibrating through him and make it _sing_.

Stan had come right over.

Now here they were, stripped down to their underwear, limbs tangled on the bedspread, his head lying comfortably on Stan’s chest, and Fiddleford couldn’t remember ever feeling more at peace.

Until Stan’s far too serious tone broke the silence of the room,“Fidds, about the other night.”

“Shh,” he soothed as he cuddled further into his side.

“We should talk about –”

“Let’s just put it behind us, darlin,’”Fiddleford cut in, tilting his head to grin cheekily up at his boyfriend. “We can put _everything_ behind us,” he declared emphatically, “Start fresh.”

Thick fingers came up to tease the hair at the back of his neck.

“And how do we do that?” Stan asked, in that husky voice that said he already knew the answer.

Fiddleford was happy to play along.

“Like this,” he whispered, leaning forward to mouth a wet kiss at Stan’s jaw. “And this.” A slow outline of a collarbone with the tip of his tongue. “And…” A quick peck above the navel. “This.” Then hot breath and the barest touch of lips to the front of Stan’s boxers.

Lube and condoms were pulled, frantically, from the nightstand drawer.

Fiddleford snatched the small bottle from Stan’s grasp and eased him back down onto the mattress. They locked eyes as he coated the fingers of his left hand, lifted up on his knees, and twisted his arm behind him.

The angle was a little awkward; getting a second finger to go in deep enough was making Fiddleford’s wrist ache. But the raw lust in Stan’s eyes as he watched was worth the discomfort.

He would do anything for this man.

When he felt adequately stretched, Fiddleford hastily removed his fingers and crawled his way up Stan’s torso. Spreading his legs on either side of his waist and laying a slick hand on his chest for balance, Fiddleford reached back to guide the tip of Stan’s cock to his entrance.

He took a deep breath, relaxed his muscles to push outward, and pressed back, _slowly_.

Every inch he sank down was pure bliss.

There were hot tears rolling down his cheeks by the time he’d seated himself fully against Stan’s hips, and he _felt_ his partner’s concern by the hands rubbing at his waist even more than he _heard_ it in the gasped,“Y’okay?”

Stan never ceased to amaze him.

Fiddleford ducked down to peck sweet little kisses all over his face. To run needy palms over his chest, and neck, and jaw.

Stan could be so gruff, but he was always gentle. So caring and loyal, it was a damned _honour_ to be loved by him. He was just so, “ _Perfect_.”

With this reassurance, strong arms wrapped around Fiddleford’s back and the lovers began to move together; rocking, grinding, thrusting. Although Fidds wasn’t getting that deep penetration he was used to, the way he was pressed against Stan’s stomach, the delicious friction there, and how he could _feel_ Stan’s racing heartbeat, rumbling moans, and heavy grunts against his ear brought him quickly to orgasm.

Limp and exquisitely exhausted, Fiddleford rolled off his partner to lie next to him on the bed. Stan turned to face him, smoothing away hair that had stuck to his brow, kissing his temple, nuzzling into his neck…

Fiddleford quickly realized he’d been neglected and moved to make amends.

“You don’t have to _ah_ –”

At the first long, hard stroke of his shaft, Stan screwed his eyes shut and bit his bottom lip. At the second, he gripped and twisted at the sheets until they were a tangled mess beneath his fingers.

Fiddleford loved to watch him like this: unwound and overwhelmed. Swollen red lips parting to pant and moan...

He was so beautiful.

Stan’s eyes fluttered open once to peer up at him, shining, pupils blown wide. Then his back arched off the bed and he came with a sharp cry.

So perfect.

While he lay there, strung out in the afterglow, Fiddleford carefully peeled off Stan’s condom, tied it, and dropped it in the waste basket by the bed. He swung his legs over the edge, intending to get cleaned up before they drifted off, but he was hooked at the waist and pulled back down before he could stand.

Admitting defeat, he curled into Stan, wrapped a leg around his hip and an arm around his neck, and breathed a content sigh. A soft kiss to the top of his head made him smile.

“I love you, Fidds,” Stan mumbled sleepily. The big lug was fading fast.

Fiddleford snuggled closer, into the crook of his neck, as he replied, “I love you too, St–” faltering, just for a moment, when his stomach gave an odd lurch.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t dwell on it.

He wouldn’t let himself.

“Stan.”

-xXxXx-

_June 21 st_

It _looked_ easy enough to work.

He didn’t exactly know what all the parts did, of course. The red tube behind the diamond-shaped light bulb was a mystery. And the larger, metal one beside it seemed to have no other purpose than to hold this weird glass canister. Some sort of battery?

The dial on the side of the gun was pretty straightforward, though; he just had to twist it and green letters would pop up, like magic, on the little screen at the back.

F – I – D – D –

There was hardly any space left by the time he’d spelled out all of FIDDLEFORD HADRON MCGUCKET.

Stan looked hard at the words on the display in front of him. He made himself stare until his eyes were _burning_ , but it didn’t make any difference. The name, the way it screamed out at him in those blocky capital letters, was too poor a representation of the man he’d lost to make him feel much of anything.

He was ready.

Taking one last deep breath, Stan held the device out in front of him.

His hands were trembling.

With his eyes locked on the bright screen he grabbed hold of the muzzle, yanked both ends up with as much force as he could muster, and snapped the gun in two.

There was a bright spark of electricity. A short plume of smoke.

And then Fiddleford’s name faded into a dull, empty black.    

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for Stanford being such a jerk in this – he’s already started retreating into himself at this point (and being heavily influenced by Bill). If I gave you his perspective you’d see that he does still care about his brother – he’s just completely given up on Fiddleford, and he thinks it would be better for Stan if he did too.


End file.
